


Days Like These (Lead to Nights Like This)

by campingwiththecharmings



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:37:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campingwiththecharmings/pseuds/campingwiththecharmings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(CS College AU) Prompt: We were partnered together for this project and we both forgot to do it, and now we have to pull an all-nighter at my house AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like These (Lead to Nights Like This)

**Author's Note:**

> A million, gazillion thanks to unspoken-and-wild for beta-ing this. ♥

Emma’s Art Appreciation class starts at nine o’clock.

It’s currently 9:15.

“Shit,” she mutters, glancing at her watch.

She should be used to the hustle and bustle of Drop-and-Add Week at this point, her junior year. Yet here she is, setting a precedent for the whole semester by being late on her first day.

Shifting her bag to sit more comfortably on her shoulder, she quickens her pace, breaking into a slight jog as she nears the Arts and Humanities building. She reaches the front steps in no time and makes her way up, taking them two at a time, before wrenching open the front door and pausing to look at the building directory.

Her class is in room 301; fantastic. Sighing, she walks quickly down the hall, following the signs for the stairwell. Her watch tells her it’s 9:19 as she clears the second flight. Cursing under her breath once more, she pushes herself up the final two flights, her calf muscles screaming.

She’s out of breath when she pulls open the door to room 301 a few minutes later. The hinges squeak as she inches the door open, announcing her late entry to the room of one-hundred plus students, two TAs, and one very annoyed-looking professor.

Emma cringes apologetically before taking the closest seat she can find and slouching as low as possible, in an attempt to make herself smaller and somehow less noticeable. Her embarrassment wears off not too long after, and she spends the remainder of the class taking notes and trying to be as attentive as possible.

When they’re dismissed, most of the students pack up quickly and make a beeline for the door. A few others hang back and wait in line to speak to the professor, she among them. Judging by what she overhears whilst waiting her turn, she was not the only one to come in late and this revelation makes Emma feel ten times better about things.

When it’s finally her turn, she introduces herself briefly before apologizing profusely for being late and interrupting the class. The professor, a short, bearded man wearing a lumberjack shirt and a grumpy expression, waves off her apology, hands her a syllabus, and grumbles something about talking to a TA. The TA she speaks to is a petite brunette with a bright smile. She jabbers excitedly about the course material for a few minutes, pointing out the needed textbooks to Emma, before quickly going over the course calendar for this semester.

“A one-thousand word essay is due every Thursday, the subject of which will be assigned the Tuesday before.  There are three tests total during the semester, _not_ including the midterm and the final; they’re pretty tough, to be honest, so make sure you take good notes!” she giggles, jokingly wagging a finger at her, “Oh, and he likes keeping his students on their toes, so don’t be surprised if there’s a pop quiz every now and again. They’re usually short-answer and tend to cover whatever reading was assigned for the week so as long as you pay attention in class and keep up with your reading, you’ll be fine. _Finally_ , there’s a ten-page paper due at the end of the semester that’s worth half of your final grade. A short presentation with your assigned partner is _required_ —stating your thesis and a doing a quick summary of your papers will work just fine, maybe throw in a visual aid or two.”

Emma’s smile falls steadily as the woman talks, already feeling overwhelmed. “Wow, okay,” she begins, pushing her blonde hair behind her ears and collecting her thoughts, “Assigned partner?”

The brunette nods vigorously and picks up the tablet sitting on the counter nearby. “You can find the name and email address of your assigned partner on the university website. Just log in, click the link for this class, and scroll down to the bottom of this menu over here,” she explains, swiping and tapping the screen quickly, “The option you want is ‘Groups.’”

She takes a steadying breath and nods, attempting to process and retain the massive amount of information the TA just dumped on her. Emma thanks the woman (called ‘Astrid’ apparently) and turns to leave, digging through one of her folders for her schedule. She sighs when she sees her next class is on the complete opposite side of the campus and quickens her pace; tardiness to one class was bad enough.

* * *

She’s screwed. Utterly and completely  _screwed_ .

How could she have forgotten? Why hadn’t she written it down in her planner? She’s spent _months_ on this paper. Months combing the forgotten, dusty stacks of the ‘Art History’ section of the university library, months visiting museums and galleries for inspiration and examples in the midst of her crazy work and class schedule…

And now all of it was for nothing; she was going to get a failing grade on her paper _and_ fail the class, and all because she forgot about the stupid ‘assigned partner presentation.’

Maybe she could email Astrid and beg for a few days extension? If anyone could talk Lumberjack Leroy into giving his students a break, it was her.

 _No,_ she thinks, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves _, this is my mess, I am going to clean it up_.

Resolved, she sits herself at her desk, logs into the university website, and quickly locates the contact information for her partner ‘Jones, Killian.” An odd feeling settles in her belly when she reads the name.

 _Killian_? Surely it wasn’t _that_ Killian…

 _No way_ , she thinks, chuckling mildly at the ridiculous thought, _I definitely would have noticed_ him _._

Emma swallows thickly and reddens slightly as images from _that_ night flash unbidden through her mind ( _the warm, wet slide of their kiss, the salty tang of his skin on her tongue, tangling her fingers in his soft hair—_ ).

Shaking her head as if to clear it, she shoots Killian a quick message, sending a prayer up to any and all gods listening that this guy regularly checks his school email.

She tries to be productive while she waits, skimming her notes for her 18th Century Lit exam next Monday, double and triple checking her Art Appreciation paper for grammar and spelling errors, practicing a few formulas she knows are on her upcoming Calculus exam. But she struggles to concentrate, her eyes flicking constantly back to the clock on her desk as it slowly ticks closer and closer to the due date ( _tomorrow,_ fuck her life).

It’s almost eight o’clock at night before her partner finally replies. The tension in her shoulders lessens when she clicks on the email, her eyes moving quickly over his reply. He first apologizes for taking so long to reply (he’s been working all day, apparently). He apologizes _again_ for being just as guilty of forgetting about the presentation and stresses that he too does not wish to fail over such a seemingly simple task. He says he can meet her in the university library in a half an hour, if she’s available.

Emma shakes her head at his suggestion, as though he can see her through her computer screen, and clicks the ‘reply’ button. She informs him that it’s finals week so the library is going to be crawling with students; they’ll be lucky if they can even find _one_ free seat, let alone two that are anywhere near each other. Instead, she suggests a local coffee shop within walking distance of the campus, offering to meet him there in thirty minutes or so, and sends it off.

She’s been in her PJs since about six o’clock so she trades them out for a pair of jeans and her comfiest t-shirt. She’s zipping up her boots when her phone chimes, alerting her of a new email. Pulling a brush through her hair, she hurries back over to her laptop and opens Killian’s response. He tells her that the coffee shop is a ‘splendid’ idea and says he’ll see her there in thirty.

Emma sends a quick reply of ‘see you’ to let him know she received his message before snapping her laptop shut and shoving it in her bag. She grabs her notebook for the class and stuffs it in as well, making sure the most current draft of her paper is inside. She snatches up her keys, wallet, and cell phone on her way toward the door. Pausing briefly, she wonders if she should leave a note for her roommate Mary Margaret (she’s a worrier, bless her), but decides on texting her on the way instead.

Thirty-five minutes and a half a cup of cocoa later finds her at an empty table in the corner with her feet propped up on one of the chairs, the items from her bag strewn haphazardly across the table. Emma chews her bottom lip and checks her watch; he’s later than he said he’d be. Picking her phone up off the table top, she quickly sends him email to let him know that she’s the blonde at the corner table (how else was he going to know where to find her?). Sighing, she slumps against the back of the chair and picks up her mug.

She people watches for a few minutes, stealing sips of cocoa every now and again. The familiar sounds and atmosphere of the shop ease the tension from her shoulders and she makes a mental note to study here more often.

“Emma Swan?”

Her head swivels toward the sound of her name; how she manages to not drop her mug in her lap she’ll never know.

 _It_ is _him,_ she realizes, doing her best to suppress the blush threatening to stain her cheeks. How in the _hell_ has she never seen him in class before? (It’s a big class, sure, but what in the hell are the odds that _he’d_ be in it? _)_

 _That_ night was mostly a blur of booze and crappy dance music (as most college parties tended to be), but she remembers him; the hot, velvet of his tongue against her own, the warm press of his lips against her neck, the prickle of his scruff on the sensitive skin of her thighs, the too blue eyes shining through her alcohol-induced haze—

“In the flesh,” she confirms, wincing slightly at the unintentional pun.

He doesn’t seem to notice as he smiles amiably and pulls out the chair opposite her. “May I?”

“Sure,” she says, watching him closely.

“So,” he begins, pulling a notebook and a small stack of papers from his bag, “How do you want to do this?”

Silence falls between them as he continues to shuffle around and through his belongings.

He isn’t looking at her. _Why isn’t he looking at her?_

An odd feeling settles in her gut when it hits her—he doesn’t remember.

She doesn’t know whether to be offended or relieved.

“Oh, um,” she begins, clearing her throat as she moves to sit up straight in her chair, “Well, I was thinking a PowerPoint presentation is probably the easiest way to go.”

He nods in wordless agreement, his attention still primarily on his stack of papers. “Sounds good,” he confirms, briefly meeting her eyes with a half-smile on his lips.

“Great,” she replies, turning her attention to her laptop. “Ten slides each okay?”

He’s silent for a moment as he furrows his brow and considers her question. “Aye, that should be enough,” he answers finally, his thoughtful look morphing suddenly into one of triumph as he pulls a smaller stack of papers from his notebook.

Emma nods and wets her lips. “I guess we should get to work then.”

They work in silence for almost an hour, the only sounds between them the shifting of papers, the click of computer keys, and a muttered curse or two every now and again.

She tries to concentrate on what she’s doing, she really does, but the idea that this guy could actually forget hooking up with her is really bugging her (much to her chagrin). Sure, it was just a drunken fling and, no, she doesn’t remember half of the other shit that had happened that night, but she remembers _him_ ; now she wishes she didn’t.

“How’s it going over there?” he asks suddenly, snapping Emma from her preoccupied thoughts.

“Good,” she lies, nodding to be more convincing, “Just, um, trying to visualize it all in my head, you know?”

He hums his assent, resting his elbows on the surface of the table as he studies her wordlessly for a moment.

Suddenly uncomfortable, she sends a forced smile his way and returns her attention to the work in front of her.

 _The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can go home_ , she thinks, ignoring the burn of his gaze.

She releases an unconsciously held breath when she hears the telltale shuffle of papers coming from his side of the table once more, refocusing herself on the task in front of her.

Closing time rolls around much sooner than she anticipates, however, and they’re each at least halfway done when the proprietor makes a stop at their table to tell them to pack it up. Her watch tells her it’s past ten o’clock. She sighs, knowing that no other moderately quiet place is going to be open this late on a Thursday.

“Any ideas on where to go?” she asks when they’re outside, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

He briefly rubs the back of his neck, looking around them as if searching for inspiration.

“Perhaps we could at least _try_ the library? It _is_ open ‘til midnight,” he suggests, shrugging and hooking his thumb beneath the strap of his bag.

Emma sighs and raises a teasing eyebrow at him. “Pretty sure it’s too late for that. Any _other_ suggestions?”

His chuckle sends any annoyingly delightful tingle up her spine. “Unless you’re willing to finish up at my place, I’m afraid not,” he suggests, scratching behind his ear.

Her gut tells her that is so _not_ a good idea.

“How about my place,” she offers casually, studying him. “My building has a common area with tables and couches and stuff that could work great.”

“What makes you think it won’t be just as crowded as the library?” he asks, raising a quizzical eyebrow at her.

She shrugs and starts walking away from him. “Only one way to find out,” she responds, throwing him a smile over her shoulder.

The sound of his hurried footsteps reaches her ears a moment later as he jogs to catch up with her and her smile widens.

* * *

Turns out he was at least  _half_ right.

The common room was, indeed, too crowded, just not at all for the reason she’d expected.

“What the hell? I can’t believe some asshole is throwing a party during _finals week_ ,” she rants, wrinkling her nose as the scent of sweat and beer reaches her nose.

“What do you want to do now?” he yells over the loud music, leaning closer so he can hear her response, his breath fanning across her cheek.

Glancing at her watch, she cringes; it’s almost eleven and this party shows zero signs of stopping.

“Come on,” she shouts, gesturing for him to follow her.

Not wanting to linger in the cesspool of hormones and alcohol any longer than is necessary, she heads toward the stairs and hauls ass up to the third floor.

“At least the music isn’t as loud up here,” she offers weakly, opening her bag to hunt for her keys.

“Aye,” he agrees, his tone teasing, “Wouldn’t have been as loud at the library, either.”

She barks a laugh at the comment, halting her search and turning toward him. “An ‘I told you so?’ Seriously?”

“I’m just stating a fact, lass,” he shrugs, a playful smile on his lips.

“Yeah, right,” she mutters, rolling her eyes and returning her attention to her bag.

She finds her keys and a minute later they’re inside her room. She knew Mary Margaret wouldn’t be there. When she’d texted her roommate earlier that evening to inform her where she was going, the brunette had told her that she’d most likely be staying at her boyfriend David’s anyway. (She’d claimed it was solely for academic reasons, but Emma knows better).

After depositing her bag on her bed, she makes her way over to her desk and quickly gathers the loose papers scattered across the surface into a pile.

“Sorry for the mess. I obviously wasn’t planning on having anyone over,” she confesses, shoving the pile of papers into one of her desk drawers.

He’s standing awkwardly in the middle of her room when she returns her attention to him, evidently unsure what to do with himself.

“No worries. I’m sure mine’s just as bad, if not worse,” he jokes, scratching behind his ear again.

“You can use my roommate’s desk if you want,” she offers with a shrug. “Just make sure you put whatever you move back in the right place. She’s kind of weird about the composition of her desk.”

“As you wish, lass,” he responds, plunking himself down into the chair with an exaggerated sigh and placing his laptop on the desk.

Less than an hour later, they’re ready to begin the collaborative portion of the project. He drags her roommate’s desk chair up beside hers and sits, his knee bumping her thigh. He’s close enough that she can smell the mild spiciness of his cologne. The scent dredges up even more hazy memories of their time together and Emma swallows thickly, willing her mind to focus on the task at hand and not the attractive man beside her.

“I’ve emailed you my bullet points,” he says suddenly, dragging her back to the present. “There should be more than enough there for ten slides.”

She nods wordlessly and clicks on the icon to for university mail on her desktop.

He somehow manages to move even closer over the next twenty minutes or so as they continue to work and Emma begins to suspect that he’s doing it on purpose. What she _can’t_ decide is if he’s just messing with her or if he actually _wants_ to be closer to her.

She may or may not hope it’s the latter.

“Perhaps you should make the font a bit bigger there as it’s part of the heading,” he offers, his arm brushing her shoulder as he moves to point at her screen.

She does as he suggests as they _are_ working on his slides and waits a moment. A sound of discontent reaches her ears after a moment and makes her chuckle.

“It’s just. I don’t know, it doesn’t look large enough to be considered a heading,” he frowns, glaring at the computer screen.

“Well aren’t _you_ the perfectionist,” she accuses, turning slightly toward him.

He turns his head to look at her, his mouth open slightly as if ready to argue, and stops when he sees the teasing smile on her lips.

“Only where it counts, love,” he admits as he leans closer, his eyes briefly flickering to her lips, his voice low and rough.

Her smile falters slightly at the look in his eyes—she does _not_ need this kind of distraction right now, damn it. With those _eyes_ and that _hair_ and that stupidly attractive smile and _holy shit, when had he gotten so close?_

“Right,” she breathes, swallowing against the sudden dryness of her throat. “How about you mess around with the settings yourself until it looks the way you want it, while I go and get some snacks from the vending machines down the hall.”

She turns her laptop toward him and rises from her chair before he has a chance to respond.

“As you wish,” she hears him say when she’s halfway across the room pilfering her roommate’s loose change from the jar on her dresser.

“Great,” she says with faux enthusiasm, turning back toward him with a handful of quarters. “Any requests?”

He tongues the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, turning in the chair so he can meet her gaze.

“Surprise me,” he says finally, raising a challenging eyebrow at her with _that_ look still shining in his eyes.

Emma nods and hastily makes her way toward the door. She’s halfway down the hall before she finally releases the breath she’s been holding for what feels like hours. Shaking her head in admonishment of herself, she slows her pace in an effort to draw out her time away from Killian.

How did she let this happen? She should’ve _known_ bringing him to her place was a bad idea.

Once she makes it to the vending machines, she takes a moment to survey their offerings. She mindlessly pushes buttons as she gives herself a mental lecture about how she’s got to get this project finished, and that it’s already past midnight so she’d better hurry the damn hell up because it’s due in less than six hours.

Figuring she’s wasted all the time she can afford to, she gathers the snacks and hurries back to her room.

“Okay,” she announces upon reentry, surveying the bounty after she deposits the small pile on Mary Margaret’s bed. “We have several varieties of chips, two chocolate candy bars, a bag of Famous Amos cookies, and a honey bun.”

Plucking the honey bun from the heap, she tears open the packaging and turns toward him with an expectant look on her face. “What’ll ya have?”

He watches her for a moment, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Apparently not the honey bun,” he jests as she bites into the glazed confection.

She briefly stops chewing and looks down guiltily at the partially eaten treat in her hand. “Oh, sorry. You want the other half?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m only teasing, lass. I’ll take a bag of whichever crisps you least prefer.”

“Whichever I least prefer? Do you not have a preference?” she asks, placing her free hand on her hip.

He shrugs before leaning back against the chair and stretching his arms over his head, causing his shirt to rise and reveal a hint of the toned skin beneath it. (Emma pretends not to notice).

“Not particularly,” he admits, raking a hand through his hair. “Go ahead, toss me one.”

She shakes her head at him, randomly plucks a bag from the pile and throwing it over. He catches it with ease and immediately pulls it open by the sides.

“Thank you, milady,” he says, quickly popping a chip into his mouth and gesturing to her computer. “I think I’ve got this how I want it if you’d like to have another look.”

Emma nods, shoving what’s left of the honey bun into her mouth and balling up the wrapper. She tosses it in the can beside the desk before plopping down into her chair with a sigh. “Alright, Jones, it’s almost one in the morning—let’s get this done.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” he jokes, bracing his forearms against his knees and leaning closer to the computer screen (and her).

They finish their slides a little over an hour later and discuss the particulars of the presentation itself for another twenty. By 2:30 a.m., everything is finished and in her relief, Emma doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Well,” Killian says after a moment of silence, rising slowly from his chair and grimacing as he stretches his back, “I suppose we should call it a night.”

“Yeah, of course,” she agrees somewhat reluctantly, also rising to her feet.

He quickly gathers his belongings, taking care to leave Mary Margaret’s desk the way he’d found it (as promised) as Emma stands awkwardly beside her desk. He releases a tired sigh as he slings his bag on his shoulder and turns to face her once more.

“It’s been a pleasure, Swan. Thanks for having me.”

In her exhaustion, her resolve begins to crack and her more primal brain begins to take hold. She attempts to push right past his phrasing, ignoring the imagery conjured by her lascivious thoughts (because she _had_ ‘had’ him and it certainly _had_ ‘been a pleasure’) and nods wordlessly in response.

The walk to her door is a short one, and his fingers close around her doorknob much sooner than she’d like.

“See you tomorrow,” she blurts, effectively returning his attention to her.

“Aye, tomorrow,” he confirms with a small smile, his voice soft.

He doesn’t move immediately toward the door again, his eyes instead roving over her face as if they’re committing her to memory. He’s close enough that she can smell his cologne again, can see the hint of silver in his blue eyes, and suddenly the urge to close the distance between them is far too overwhelming.

She knows that she should break this spell, that she should let him to go home. But for some reason—one she pretends not to understand—she _can’t_.

“I have a confession to make,” she whispers instead, unconsciously swaying closer to him.

“Most women do,” he says, smiling softly at her.

“Earlier this year I went to this party and, um, I met this guy,” she says, swallowing around the lump rising in her throat. “Unfortunately both of us had _way_ too much to drink at the time so most of that night’s on the fuzzy side. Thing is, I remember enough to recognize him, but I’m not entirely sure he can say the same about me.”

“Trust me, love, you’re a hard lass to forget,” he says, clearly not at all phased by what she’s just revealed.

“Funny you should say that,” she chuckles, nervously running a hand through her hair, “Because the guy I met was you.”

She waits for the shock to cross his face, but it never does.

“Like I said,” he begins, his voice soft as he steps closer and tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her ear, “You’re hard to forget, Swan.”

She fights the urge to gape at him because _holy shit, he_ does _remember_.

His face is hovering inches above hers and all she has to do to get what she wants, what she’s wanted all _night_ , is raise up onto her tip toes—

But she doesn’t.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks, putting her hand on his chest and gently pushing him back just a bit. (His closeness is distracting her, damn it).

He scratches behind his ear as he ponders her question, taking a moment to chew his bottom lip. “Why didn’t you?”

His question is a fair one—Why _hadn’t_ she said anything?

 _You were afraid_ , her brain offers.

It’s then that she realizes that maybe _he_ was afraid too; she’s not the easiest person to get close to and who _knows_ what she told him the night they’d been together…

“I, uh, I’m just gonna go. G’night, Swan.”

Her hand is still on his chest as he moves to step away. She lets her fingers glide over the soft cotton of his shirt for a moment, raising her other hand up to do the same. The action halts him long enough for her to fist both of her hands in the shirt and pull his mouth to hers.

His lips are warm and soft and she can taste the salty snack he’d eaten earlier when she swipes her tongue between them. He groans softly against her mouth at the action, stepping close enough to press himself against her. He gently cups the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair in the process. He plunders her mouth with his hot, velvety tongue, kissing her so slow and so deep she swears she can feel it all the way down to her toes.

Unclenching her fists, she winds one of her hands up his chest and into his hair, while the other moves to push the bag from his shoulder. Their kiss grows hungrier when he eliminates whatever space is left between them by pressing her against the door, kicking his bag out of the way in the process. His lean, toned body feels like heaven against hers despite their clothing and she can’t help the sigh that escapes her.

He pulls his mouth from hers and drags his lips down her neck, murmuring things Emma can’t quite decipher against her skin. She gasps at the sensation and tangles her fingers in his thick hair. He stops his exploration just above her collarbone and takes a moment to worry a mark there before turning his attention back to her mouth. She lets him consume her, lets herself get lost in the feel of him; his hands are everywhere, cupping her cheeks one moment and clutching at her hips the next and it’s so overwhelming she almost doesn’t know what to let herself feel first.

She gasps his name against his cheek when he rolls his hips _just_ right. He smiles wickedly and repeats the motion, drawing a moan from her this time. Not one to be toyed with, Emma breaks their contact and pushes him back in the direction of her bed, keeping a guiding hand on his chest. She pushes him down to sit once he reaches the edge and studies him, glassy-eyed with lust, his lips kiss-swollen, and his hair mussed.

Emma bites her lip and moves toward him. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she climbs into his lap. His hands immediately come to rest on her hips as she straddles him, his lips mindlessly pressing kisses to her neck. She rolls her hips experimentally as she settles and it’s _his_ turn to moan. Killian coaxes her lips down to his again as she continues to rut against him, their breaths leaving them in pants and gasps and _God_ , their last time certainly hadn’t felt like _this_.

Her hands find their way beneath the hem of his shirt, his skin soft beneath her fingers. She can feel the goosebumps that rise on his skin as she touches him. She ghosts her fingertips over the muscles of his abdomen, relishing the way they twitch under her delicate touch. He releases her abruptly after a moment, moving his hands to grasp the hem of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. His mouth is on hers again before she has a chance to appreciate the view, the hands on her hips slipping up beneath the hem of her own t-shirt.

His touch is light and sends a shiver up her spine. She kisses him harder in response, winding her arms around his neck, her fingers tugging lightly on the hair at his nape. She feels his groan against her chest, still rutting her hips against his.

“I want you,” she pants against his lips, his fingertips tracing her spine beneath her shirt.

He pulls back slightly at her words and meets her eyes, as if he’s trying to make sure _she’s_ sure, before gathering her in his arms and rolling them so she’s beneath him. He studies her for a moment, his body cradled pleasantly between her thighs, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He moves off of her and the bed, despite her whine of protest, and toes off his shoes before kneeling to remove hers.

His hands skate up her thighs as he slides his way back up her body, the heat of his skin blazing even through the thick denim. He lifts her shirt a few inches when he reaches her torso, pressing kisses to her stomach as his fingers flick open the button of her jeans. She squirms deliciously beneath him, earning her a muffled chuckle. He stills her movements by placing his hands on her hips, his mouth continuing to drive her insane. Her fingers plunge into his hair again as _his_ deftly pull down the zipper of her jeans. He places a few more pecks to her stomach before hooking his fingers into her waistband and pulling.

His lips, teeth, and tongue greet every patch of skin revealed to him and when he finally manages to get her pants off, Emma feels like she’s on fire. She coaxes him all the way back up to her by his hair, her mouth latching onto his again as soon as he gets close enough. Her hands slide down his chest to the waistband of his pants where she quickly flicks open the button and pulls the zipper. His groan breaks their kiss when she dips her hand beneath it to grasp his length, his hips rutting against her as she slowly strokes him.

“ _Emma_ ,” he moans, resting his forehead against the side of her neck.

She reluctantly releases him and moves to push his pants and underwear over his hips, using her feet to push them down low enough for him to kick them off.

“You’re wearing _far_ too much, darling,” he purrs against her lips, his fingers grasping the hem of her shirt and lifting.

After a bit of maneuvering, her shirt is gone and Killian’s hands are tickling their way back down to her sides. He wastes no time hooking his fingers in the waistband of her panties once he reaches her hips, slowly working them down her legs and somehow managing to drive her even crazier.

He makes a pit stop on his way back up, parting her thighs and licking a long stripe up her center. She gasps in surprise, her fingers immediately tangling in his hair. He finds her clit, his tongue skating quickly around and around, relishing the soft sighs and low moans spilling from her throat. She grinds herself against his tongue, her grip on his hair tightening when he slips two fingers inside her. He adds a third when his lips surround her clit and within minutes she’s quivering in his arms, her walls squeezing his fingers as she comes.

She’s panting and flushed when she pulls him back up to her, her heart beating madly in her chest. He kisses her and she moans against his lips when she tastes herself on his tongue. His hand skates up her side to tweak her nipple through her bra and just like that Emma’s had enough. Hooking her legs around his, she flips him over onto his back. Hovering above him, she reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. Leaning down to kiss him again, she sighs as the coarse hair on his chest rubs deliciously against her nipples. His arms cradle her to his chest as they kiss, their hips rutting against each other, seeking any kind of friction.

She break the kiss, rising to straddle him after a moment, before reaching over to her bedside table and pulling out a condom from the drawer. Shifting back onto his thighs, she tears open the wrapper and firmly grasps his length. His groan sends a fresh wave of heat through her as she pumps him a few times before sliding the condom on. He sits up as she slides back up his legs, hauling her into his lap and stealing her breath with yet another kiss.

“ _Please._ I need you,” Emma mutters, squirming against him trying to find that sweet contact they’re both craving.

“As you wish,” he mumbles, releasing her.

Emma straddles him, grinding against his erection and eliciting moans from them both. She’s too far gone to keep teasing either of them, though, and soon she’s sinking down onto him with a blissful sigh, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Killian groans when she starts to move, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her hair and drawing her lips back to his.

The heat builds slowly inside her, the fire reigniting beneath her skin again as she nears her peak. She rises and falls against him, gradually increasing her pace, her thighs burning deliciously from the strain. She gasps against his mouth when he shifts her suddenly in his lap, moaning loudly when he hits _that_ spot inside her.

“That’s it, love,” he breathes against her cheek, sliding the hand on her hip down to where they are joined. “Come for me.”

She feels a rush of heat when she reaches her peak, a breathy moan escaping her as her release floods her body. Killian stiffens a moment later, groaning in relief and resting his forehead against hers.

“Well,” he pants, winding his arms around her waist as if to keep her in his lap, “That was—“

“Yeah, it was,” Emma agrees, smiling softly and carding her fingers through his damp hair.

He pulls back to study her after a moment, his eyes earnest when he asks, “Did you really think I’d forgotten you, love?”

Emma chews her lip and averts her gaze. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she shrugs, trying to keep her tone light.

A shadow crosses behind his eyes at her words, his hands gently cupping her cheeks. “It will certainly be the last,” he replies softly.

She searches his face silently for a moment, looking for the lie. “Maybe,” she says, smile returning to her face.

She wants to trust him.

Hopefully he’ll stick around long enough for her to find out if she can.

**Author's Note:**

> Review (pretty please)?


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